Misconduct

Arguing with Tyler Marek was a waste of time, especially when you didn’t really disagree.

I should’ve gone home.

I had work to get ahead on, an oven that I could’ve been cleaning, and lots of updates to be made to my website for the students and parents. Not to mention, I had leftover homemade bread in the freezer that needed to be eaten before the end of the month. I had a responsibility to Christian, and if I were his mother, I’d . . .

I let out a deep breath as I walked up to the vanity in his huge bathroom, having put back on his T-shirt after my shower, I rubbed the back of my head with a gray towel and shook my head.

I should go home.

But he kept wanting me.

He kept tapping at my shell like I was an egg he needed to crack. And while I constantly felt like goo that would spill everywhere if not protected by my hard outer armor, he made me feel like I didn’t need it.

Like he was going to take care of everything.

Here, in his cave of a house, with its shutters drawn and big, empty rooms, the serene glow of the soft lamps and the pitter-patter of rain on the roof, I’d finally relaxed.

He made me feel safe, and while I didn’t need a man to protect me, I kind of enjoyed letting some of the worry go. For the first time in a long time, I’d closed my eyes and fallen asleep last night without a struggle, peaceful in the feeling that someone was next to me.

And when I woke up, I hadn’t had the split-second moment of panic I always had before I registered that I was safe.

Instead, I’d woken up this morning, and rather than quickly scanning the room and taking inventory, my eyes had immediately fallen on Tyler’s back as he walked to the bathroom and winked at me over his shoulder before disappearing into the shower.

I found his hairbrush on the expansive sink counter, along with a hair dryer. After combing out my hair, I blew it out, threw the used towel in the hamper, and made up his bed. I also folded my clothes neatly, placing them on the chair in the corner, and scanned the room to make sure everything was in its place.

Or in its place as well as I could tell.

Stepping out of the room and into the hallway—if you could call it that—I slowly turned my head, taking in the surroundings that I had failed to notice last night as Tyler practically hauled me upstairs.

The landing was circular with a railing, so you could lean over and peer downstairs. Bedroom doors—or I assumed that’s what they were—lined the edges, and there was another staircase, leading to a third floor. The dark teak floors glimmered in the gentle lighting from the chandelier hanging above, and all of the wooden furniture surfaces shined. The lemon scent of wood polish, leather, and cologne filled my lungs, and it brought a smile to my face.

Men lived here, and those scents brought back memories of growing up with Jack and my father.

Trailing down the stairs, I stepped hesitantly, poking out my head with a watchful eye. I was still afraid Christian or someone else might appear and I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to explain myself.

Peering to the right, I spied the foyer, so I turned left, heading toward the back of the house, figuring I’d find the kitchen. At the sound of Tyler’s voice, I stopped at the entrance to another hallway and caught a glimpse of a light coming through another door.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he had that deep, frigid tone that he’d tried using on me in his office last Saturday, so I deduced he was probably on a business call.

I continued looking for the kitchen, my stomach swimming with butterflies at the image of him conducting business and issuing orders with his scary arched eyebrow while wearing nothing but those jeans.

When I found it, I rummaged through the refrigerator, craving carbs and protein.

I’d want him again when he was done with his big, bad call, so I needed energy.

When I switched on the radio, Rihanna’s “Only Girl” filled the room, and I started bobbing my head as I padded around the kitchen in my bare feet. I chopped up some leftover potatoes I’d found in the refrigerator and fried up some bacon. After mixing up some eggs, chives, salt, and pepper, I poured the mixture into a pan, scooped the bacon pieces and potatoes on top, and then placed the dish in the oven to bake for a country French omelet.

Before I knew it, I was happily lost in fixing place settings at the granite island with coffee and orange juice and chopping up fresh pineapple, strawberries, and blueberries for a salad, as well as drawing hot biscuits from the oven. I figured they were homemade, since I’d found them in a plastic container in the refrigerator, so all I’d needed to do was heat them up.

I wasn’t sure who kept the kitchen so well stocked or who’d originally cooked the biscuits I was reheating, but I guessed it wasn’t Tyler. I couldn’t picture that.

I grabbed the pot holders and switched off the oven, leaning down to retrieve the pan.

“Goddamn,” I heard behind me. “You’re never allowed to wear underwear again.”

I peeked over my shoulder, still leaning down to the stove, and saw Tyler standing on the other side of the counter with his eyes nowhere near mine. His forearms rested on the island, and his head was cocked to the side as his gaze swept over my bottom and down my legs. And since he’d torn away my underwear last night, I wore nothing underneath.

I grabbed the pan and straightened, smiling as I placed it on top of the oven.

“How’s business?” I asked, using a knife to cut the large omelet in half.

“I’ve still got a bit to do,” he answered, and I heard him pouring coffee, “but I’m not allowed to touch you until it’s finished, so I’ll get it done quickly.”

I twisted my head around to narrow my eyes on him.

He must’ve seen the question in my eyes, because he laughed to himself. “On the rare occasion I have something I’d rather be doing instead of work, I have to bargain with myself,” he explained, and locked his gaze on mine. “And I can’t put my hands on you until I’m done with my work. That’s the bargain today.”

I smirked. “We’ll see,” I taunted.

He arched his damn eyebrows at me and set the coffeepot down.

I slid half an omelet onto a spatula. “You like omelets, I hope?”

“Yes,” he rushed out, sounding relieved as he slid onto the stool. “I’m starving. You didn’t have to do this, but thank you. It looks great.”

He immediately started digging into the omelet, and I had a hard time not watching him as he ate everything on his plate and downed his glass of orange juice, quickly pouring himself another. The fruit and biscuits in front of him disappeared just as fast, but I, on the other hand, had to force myself to take bites, because I was having more fun watching him wolf down his breakfast.

He kind of ate like he screwed. In the moment, it was the only thing he needed, and while it was happening, it was the only thing he was thinking about.

His hair was devoid of any product and fell casually to the side, while his jeans hung loosely, just above the curve of his ass. I set my fork down, hungry but not for food anymore, as my heart rate picked up, and I devoured him with my eyes.

“Easton,” he growled, making my name sound like a warning. “I mean it. I need to work.”

I snapped my eyes up to see him sipping coffee and staring ahead, a hard expression on his face. He knew what I’d been thinking.

“Can’t keep up with the appetite of a twenty-three-year-old?” I teased.

He looked affronted. “You’re going to pay for that.”

Oh, I hope so.

I was half tempted to put more effort into distracting him. I liked making him angry.

But I decided against it, realizing it would divulge to him how much I was enjoying his company.

I let my eyes trail down his thick, corded forearms, wide chest, and toned stomach, almost wishing Tyler were twenty-two again. Maybe if I’d slept with the cocky asswipe he’d been in his youth, I wouldn’t have grown to like him as much as I had already.

He was still an asshole, but it came off endearing most of the time, and he completely turned me on. He was also patient, as eager to please me in bed as he was to please himself, and confident in what he wanted.

And today that was me.

I cleared my throat and tried to continue eating. “Are you sure you’re not expecting anyone home today?” I asked.

“I just called Christian to check in,” he assured me. “He’s a hundred twenty miles away and already out fishing for the day.”

I winced and returned to my fruit.

“What?”

I looked up at him, not having meant for him to see my reaction.

“Ah, well . . .” I searched for the words. “I guess it seems boring. For me anyway,” I added.

“I agree.” He nodded, surprising me. “I’m not much of a country boy.”

I grinned to myself, happy to hear that I hadn’t offended him. Or maybe happy to hear we had that in common, as well.

I’d never been interested in hunting or fishing, although I didn’t think I’d be averse to camping and hiking if I ever got the chance to try them.

Reaching over and grabbing the iPad, I laid it on the island between our plates.

“I’d say the wilderness you brave is far more dangerous, anyway,” I commented, gesturing to the Times-Picayune article I’d found about him online.

He rolled his eyes at the headline: Marek and Blackwell Vying for Senate?

“You investigated me?” he accused, eyeing me playfully as he repeated my words to him from last night.

I licked my lips, trying to hide the smile. “I know how to Google,” I retorted.

I brought up the notes I’d made on the iPad, shoving it over to him as I hopped off my stool and began clearing dishes.

“What’s this?” he asked about what I’d written.

“I made some notes on your platform,” I told him, clearing off the plates and placing them in the dishwasher.

While the food had been in the oven, I’d scanned some articles about him and browsed around his website, taking a look at random press conferences he’d given concerning news in his company or his interest in running for senator.

“Who writes your speeches?” I asked.

“I do.”

My eyebrows shot up, but I didn’t turn away in time. He’d seen my face.

“What?” he asked, sounding defensive.

I dried off my hands and faced him, wondering how I would tell a man as insistent and stubborn as Tyler Marek that he kind of stunk at something.

He watched me, and I gave him an apologetic smile. “No offense,” I inched out, “but your speeches are lacking. You’re about as heartwarming as a meat locker.”

His back straightened and his chin dipped, and for a moment I thought I was in for another spanking.

“And your online presence needs work,” I added. “You’re kind of dull.”

His eyes narrowed. “Get in my lap. I’ll show you how dull I am.”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring his threat as I circled the island and came to stand at his side.

“Here, look.” I tapped the screen, bringing up his social media.“Your Twitter followers.” I pointed to his number and then brought up another profile. “Mason Blackwell’s Twitter followers.”

I eyed him, hoping he saw the huge difference. Mason Blackwell had five times as many followers, but he didn’t have nearly the influence of Tyler Marek.

Tyler owned a multimillion-dollar worldwide corporation. So why did he come off looking like a hermit?

I went on, scrolling through the iPad, pointing things out. “You tweet—or the person you hired tweets—once every other day. And it’s boring,” I told him. “Retweets of articles, ‘have a nice day everyone,’ Blah.”

Tyler looked up, clearly not appreciating my attitude.

I continued. “He tweets every other hour, and it’s photos, family funnies, mundane crap, but it’s engaging,” I explained, meeting Tyler’s eyes.

He sighed, sounding stubborn. “I already hear this from my brother. I don’t need it from you,” he argued. “Twitter won’t put me in office. People vote for—”

“Whoever’s popular, Tyler,” I cut in, not sorry that I sounded curt. “Sorry to say, but not every voter makes informed decisions.”

And then a thought crossed my mind, and I grinned, grabbing the iPad and snapping a picture of his nearly empty bowl of fruit, save for a strawberry half and two blueberries.

Attaching the photo and adding a caption, I posted it under his profile. Lucky for me the device was already logged into his account.

Handing over the iPad, I let him take a look.

He read, “‘Having breakfast on lockdown. Stay safe out there everyone!’”

I blew on my fingernails and brushed them over my shirtsleeve, pleased with myself.

His eyebrows nose-dived. “Wait,” he bit out. “You can see my stomach in that picture.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I cooed, nodding.

He glared at me. “My bare stomach, Easton,” he pointed out, as if I were blind.

I held up my pointer finger and thumb, measuring an inch. “Just a sliver.”

The small white ceramic bowl was sitting near the edge of the island. The picture showed not only the bowl, but a nice slice of his tight stomach.

He shoved the iPad at me. “Delete it.”

I grabbed it, feigning nonchalance. “Sorry. No can do.” I shrugged and then looked at the iPad when I heard a notification alert. “Oh, look! It’s already been retweeted twice, and it’s probably been screenshot by ten other users,” I explained. “If you delete it now, it’ll look weird.”

“Give it to me.” He stood up, holding out his hand. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

“No!”

I ran around the island, stuffing the iPad into the microwave, and moved to turn around, but he was already at my back, stopping me.

I breathed out a laugh, the heat of the chase filling my lungs with excitement.

“You can’t have it,” I whispered, plastering my palms against the microwave.

His body blanketed my back, and his lips nuzzled my neck, making my eyelids grow heavy.

His fingertips grazed up over my hips, and I realized that he was pulling up the T-shirt.

“Maybe that’s not what I want anymore.” His gravelly voice was filled with promise, and I immediately groaned at the rush of heat between my legs.

But I wasn’t fooled.

“You’re trying to distract me,” I assessed, although I didn’t mind it in the least.

His quiet laugh tickled my ear, but his hands continued to roam, and I let my head fall to the side, feeling him immediately bury his nose in my neck.

“What is that?” he asked, popping his head up.

I blinked as his attention shifted, the tingles his hands were bringing dissipating. I listened, hearing beeps and whistles, and I turned around, smiling.

“Favorites, retweets, replies,” I listed, gloating. “The sounds of victory.”

He pinned me with a familiar stubborn look, but I caught the hint of amusement underneath.

“Go finish your work.” I jerked my chin in the direction of the hallway. “You can thank me later.”